


So Spake Iron to Iron

by Anonymous



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bitterness, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Dialogue Heavy, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 13:33:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13214808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Perturabo and ghost!Ferrus have a talk.





	So Spake Iron to Iron

On a fundamental level, Perturabo was still having difficulties processing the reality of the situation. What it was was simple enough, but the how and the why -- especially the _why him_ \-- continued to elude him.

"Are you really there?" he asked, dumbfounded, when Ferrus first truly appeared.

Ferrus turned his silver eyes on him, fixing him with a look of cool boredom. Perturabo reached for him without thinking, only for his hand to pass through. He pulled it back as if scalded, though really it had felt like nothing at all, and returned to staring at the other in a stupor.

"Ferrus?" he asked, when the spectre did not speak.

Ferrus stared at him long and hard. Circumstances notwithstanding, Perturabo had never felt at ease in the company of his brothers, especially not Ferrus, whom he had asked for advice in confidence only to be scorned for considering such things. The silence dragged on until at last, the other spoke.

"Perturabo."

There was a clatter as he -- along with his armour -- sagged to the floor.

"Ferrus," he said again, "It's -- it's really you. But -- but why? And how?" He thought of all the times he had imagined Forgebreaker speaking to him and felt the beginnings of flush creep towards his ears. "Have you been there all the while?" he demanded, "Why show yourself now?"

Ferrus' brow creased as he took in the private stateroom of the Primarch of the Iron Warriors. Perturabo's residence had changed greatly in the decades since he had last seen it. He then looked back to his brother, still on his knees, and shook his head.

"I feel as if I've just woken up," he admitted, frowning further. "Something must have changed." He glared at Perturabo then and continued in an equally demanding tone: "What have you done, O Lord of Iron?"

"Nothing which should have had the slightest chance of bringing you back to life, that, I can assure you," Perturabo snapped back, rising to his feet to return the glare. If the other weren't a ghost, he would have ordered him to be thrown out. How dare he stroll into (or rather, apparate out of thin air) his private quarters to fault Perturabo for his own revival!

Ferrus ignored him, turning back to the room. His gaze settled on Forgebreaker before swiveling back to Perturabo.

"Why -- " he started.

"It was a gift from the Warmaster."

"The Arch-Traitor," Ferrus spat.

"Watch your words, he is the Warmaster still."

"He lost that title the second he renounced our father."

"As you lost your right to the hammer the second you lost your head."

"It surprises me, that you can even lift it," Ferrus bit back, "But then, I see you've had to make adjustments. Understandable."

"Those adjustments are to compensate for the state you reduced your own weapon to."

" _It is no weapon of mine_."

Perturabo stepped back, veins bulging with poorly-contained ire. He wanted to break something. He cursed the comedy of fates that seemed to pursue him, saddling him first with Fulgrim and then with Ferrus. He, who had wanted nothing to do with either of them, who had wanted nothing to do with Horus, even! They got along poorly even when they were on the same side; the crumbling of their alliance would only exacerbate the antipathy.

When he regained control of his senses, he saw that Ferrus was still there, hovering in space like a poorly-projected Astropath. His gaze was as judgmental as ever and Perturabo snarled at it.

"Leave me be," he commanded, "You would not listen to me then, why should I listen to you now?" The words sounded foolish -- immature to the extreme -- as soon as they left his mouth but he said them all the same. Ferrus pursed his lips, visibly annoyed.

"You flatter yourself, Perturabo. I would sooner manifest before the Warmaster himself than before you. At least Horus has a chance of listening to reason -- "

Perturabo scoffed at that. "Clearly, you haven't had council with him in some time. The Horus you knew would have never raised his sword against his beloved father."

"You mean he's been possessed by a Warp spirit?" Ferrus asked. It was the first time Perturabo had seen something resembling surprise on his brother's face. It figured, that it was none of his own doing.

"No, that would be your dear Phoenician. The sod nearly killed me for the chance at ascension."

Ferrus' gaze darkened at the mention of Fulgrim and Perturabo felt a chill run down his spine, despite himself. Rationally, he understood there was no way the other could harm him, ghost or not. But then, what did ghosts and daemons have on the limits of rationality?

"You would do well to not speak of him in my presence," Ferrus said in a tone of Medusan winter.

"I'll speak as I please, this is my ship," Perturabo snapped. Ferrus glared at him and he dug at the wound. "What will you do? Cross your arms and sulk in the corner? I welcome it brother, in fact -- I may even relish in it."

Ferrus did indeed cross his arms, but he did not go in the corner. Rather he smiled his own twisted smile, reminding Perturabo that his side (and his men) were not the only cruel sports in the galaxy, and then began to speak.

"I had the pleasure of visiting Olympia. Horus sensed your presence there, you see, and I was sent to scout for you. Now that was a properly civilised world. Nothing like the barren wastelands of Medusa, or the irradiated craters of Chemos. Why, I remember men and women and children -- "

"Shut up."

But Ferrus did not shut up. In fact, his smile widened and he continued with: "Men and women and children drinking straight from the rivers. Water as clean and pure as the mountain spring, running down to the cities, all terribly neat."

Perturabo picked up a chest of drawers and threw it at Ferrus.

" _SHUT UP_!" he snarled as the furniture shattered against the wall. He couldn't even focus his gaze on Ferrus, for how badly the choler ran through his veins. Ferrus said nothing more but continued smiling, and Perturabo's conscience supplied him with the end of the story. He remembered the aqueduct Ferrus spoke of. He remembered placing the groundwork for its creation, he remembered setting the first brick, he remembered the enamoured gazes of his people, who looked upon his as a god-sent engineer.

With a groan, he turned his back on Ferrus and threw himself upon his bed. He rolled onto his back and covered his eyes.

"If only they hadn't rebelled," he hissed, "If only they had been content with their lot!"

He hated himself for showing weakness before an enemy, even a felled one. There was every chance of Ferrus re-manifesting before some one of their loyal brothers and passing the information on that all was not well in the Warmaster's high command. In fact, he half-expected Ferrus to take his leave. But when he removed his hands and turned to look at the other, Ferrus remained, still hovering at his bedside.

"Did it hurt?" he asked, "Dying?"

Ferrus raised his eyebrows, taken aback at the question, and Perturabo took some comfort in being to catch the other off-guard, even in such a mundane manner.

"Somewhat," he admitted, in the same way one might water down a war story. "The anticipation was worse."

"I am sorry," Perturabo admitted, "I am sorry that you died, Ferrus. It was not a fitting end, not for you."

Perturabo expected scorn and ridicule. But Ferrus only looked at him in his usually serious way and nodded.

"Thank you," he said, and then after a brief pause: "I did not mean what I said about your adjustments. I looked them over and they're quite good. The additional weight on the handle in particular, I imagine it makes for a better follow-through."

"Not just with the follow-through," Perturabo corrected, "But it shifts the balance altogether back towards the hand. Without it, I would not be able to wield it single-handed."

"Curious," Ferrus nodded, floating over to where Forgebreaker rested. "Despite having spent so much time with it, the idea of wielding it with one hand never occurred to me. But then, the idea of altering it was anathema in those days." He shook his head, going back to Perturabo, "It is certainly an improvement," he said at last.

"Damn you, Ferrus," Perturabo cursed, "Why praise me from the grave?" It was pathetic, how badly he wanted to hear such words. Even more pathetic, how happy it made him to hear Ferrus above all others give such a compliment.

"Will you not defect?" Ferrus asked instead, "The Emperor would welcome you with open arms."

Perturabo laughed, sensing this to be the crux of the issue. Of course Ferrus would not appear before him in particular. Of course Ferrus would not actually praise his craftsmanship. He shook his head, refusing to rise from the bed.

"I cannot," he said, "Even before Olympia, I was too far gone. The Imperial Truth never sat with me and though I could care less for the True Gods, at least they don't seek to keep me in the shadows."

Ferrus shook his head too, as if to say he had tried.

"Aren't you going now?" Perturabo demanded, when the other insisted on staying.

"What part of 'I have no control over this form' is failing to register?"

"I thought you a liar."

"I am no liar."

Perturabo blanched, the reality of the situation settling with him a second time. "So then -- " he sat up, staring yet again at his returned brother, "You're here."

"Not for long, Throne willing," Ferrus muttered, still disgruntled.

"Still."

"For the time being -- yes."

The beginnings of a stupid idea began to take root in Perturabo's mind. Well, they were in the middle of a month-long transit and he was in all honesty bored so he said it anyways.

"What say you to a game of Warhammer?" he asked.

"War-what?"

"Here," Perturabo pushed himself off from the bed, grabbing Forgebreaker and swinging it onto his shoulder, "I'll show you." Ferrus, verymuch attached to the hammer, was made to follow, and by the Throne, he found himself liking the miniature game.


End file.
